


Though Chains Be of Gold

by lily8007



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, First Meetings, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2019-10-19 13:37:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17602364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily8007/pseuds/lily8007
Summary: Though chains be of gold, they are chains all the same.  ~Feet Fall on the Road, by Bruce CockburnChoice versus destiny is much more difficult to navigate for the man who will become the Dark Knight, and the woman who is the Demon's Daughter.  In a world where everyone knows their soulmate at their first touch, how do two such determined individuals navigate a future neither of them expected?This is a Brutalia-style Soulmark AU.  It's also a fill forPrompt Bingo Round 12.  In talking over my prompts with other fans on the Fyeah Talia server on Discord, inspiration for this story hit me, and I ran with it. It's gonna be at least three, maybe five chapters.** really, who was I kidding? Probably 10 chapters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my friend and fellow member of the Talia Defense League [Zara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/desolationofzara/profile) for help with Arabic throughout this fic. I really appreciate having a native speaker willing to give me pointers. 
> 
> Any inaccuracies are strictly mine, and should be pointed out so I can fix them.

Everyone was born with a soulmark, a spot on the skin that was black as ink or white as snow, whichever contrasted most sharply with the bearer’s skin tone.  It represented the first touch between soulmates, and when they finally touched, both marks blossomed with color. Some turned the color of the soul mate’s eyes, or became the soulmate’s favorite color.  Some turned into gorgeous patterns of color like abstract tattoos. Some burst into gradients or rainbow hues.

Some babies didn’t seem to have soulmarks.  They grew up to be whole and happy in and of themselves.  Some had more than one, and found happiness in polyamorous arrangements, or married again after being widowed.  Some people never found their soulmate, while some toddlers came home from daycare with their soulmarks changed.  Love was ever mutable and wonderful.

Most soulmarks - over half - were on the hands, since that was the most common touch.  Many of the remainder were on the shoulders or forearms. But there were always oddities.  Bruce Wayne was born with a narrow black streak on the side of his neck, just above the collarbone.  His father consulted other doctors who examined it gravely, and they kept careful watch over the years, trying to decipher the mark’s meaning.  Bruce was just happy not to have a mark like another boy in his school, whose mark turned out to be a perfectly recognizable handprint on his buttock.  The jeering in the locker room was ribald, to say the least.

When he turned ten, and the shots echoed in Crime Alley, Bruce forgot about soulmarks entirely.

His life after that was devoted to a single purpose, and eventually his studies led him to the League of Shadows.  Their leader, Ra’s al Ghul, took a personal interest in him, which mostly meant that Bruce was trained harder than anyone else among the students.  He grew proud of his skill, even arrogant, glad to spar with any of the trainees or assassins.

And then one day a new person arrived at the compound hidden in the mountains.  Bruce had long since been taught to assess anyone he saw as a potential opponent, and he discounted this one.  The newcomer wore a hooded cloak and balaclava against the cold, swathed head to toe in black like most of the other trainees.  A head shorter than Bruce, slim almost to the point of delicacy, moving with the economy of a well-trained martial artist ... but Bruce thought his own size and strength would prevail, and dismissed the possibility of threat.  

Something of that assessment must have shown in his expression, because the newcomer made a detour across the room to approach him. All Bruce could see, between the cloak's hood and the balaclava, was an impression of challenging dark eyes set in tawny skin. He returned the look levelly, keeping his breathing even, as the newcomer made a point of looking him over.

And then he stepped back, raising one hand, and crooked his fingers in an unmistakable ‘come at me’ gesture. Bruce could only stare; he had fifty pounds of solid muscle on the guy! One good hit would probably break ribs.

The League permitted challenges between members; to refuse would either show cowardice, or be a killing insult, implying he thought the newcomer was unworthy of fighting. So Bruce gave a short bow, and followed the slighter man into the training room.

The newcomer pulled two bokken from the weapons rack, tossing one to Bruce. He’d had enough martial arts before coming here to know that most styles sparred with shinai, made of bamboo staves bound together. Taking a hit from a shinai hurt, but it was mostly a correction. The wooden bokken, on the other hand, was less deadly than a katana's sharp metal edge, yet it could still be lethal. Blows landed by bokken did plenty of damage.

And the way of the sword was not Bruce's primary focus; he was much better in hand to hand. It made sense for a smaller, weaker opponent to choose a weapon, though, and he could not refuse without giving offense.

The rest of the trainees were filing into the large open room, watching from the walls with interest. Bruce noted that, and revised his initial assessment. This one was known, to them at least.

He brought the bokken up in a salute, and bowed to his waiting opponent. The other did the same, flowing effortlessly from the respectful bow into attack position. In the same breath, both fighters lunged at one another.

Bruce quickly realized he was badly overmatched. The other man fought like a storm, his bokken lashing with lightning speed and accuracy, but he was never there when Bruce returned the attack, evading Bruce's weapon like raindrops flowing around the strikes. Even falling back to strictly defense didn't help, bruising blows continuing to land. Frankly, he was getting brutalized here.

To have any chance of losing gracefully - winning wasn't even on the table anymore - he needed to change the game. So Bruce made a beginner's blundering error, one that earned him a savage blow. He took it across the breadth of his shoulders, though, and accepted the pain because it granted him an instant of opportunity. One blow of his bokken, one wrenching turn _into_ the other's strike, and he'd disarmed the smaller man - at the expense of losing his own weapon, too.

Bruce squared up, expecting caution, but his opponent was far faster and utterly unafraid. The attack came immediately, the smaller man leaping up and slashing down with a knife-hand strike aimed _precisely_ at the cluster of nerves on the side of Bruce's neck. He went down hard, his leg on that side buckling, communication between brain and body briefly interrupted. He did his best to roll, his skin hot where the other man had struck him, a deep radiating pain…

Pain which was, oddly, fading into tingling warmth. Half sitting up, Bruce rubbed at the spot, trying to force normal feeling back into his nerves before his opponent finished the job … but the other man had stopped, looking at his right hand, and abruptly stripped off his glove.

There, along the very edge of his hand from fingertip to heel, a stripe of white was fading, replaced by whorls of dark grey in complicated patterns. Bruce stared, remembering _his_ soulmark for the first time in years. He tugged his collar down, wishing he could see it right now, because it must have been changing, too.

 _Well, that's interesting,_ he thought, looking up at this opponent who was apparently his soulmate. The other stared at his own hand, then glared at Bruce's neck, outrage in every line of his body.

Bruce managed a dry chuckle, and that was too much. The other flung his hood back, yanked off the balaclava … spilling a flood of long, dark brunette hair. And the face thus revealed was heartbreakingly lovely: large dark eyes, high cheekbones, elegant brows, lush lips.

Bruce's jaw dropped. That was no man, he'd just been soundly beaten by the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. And _she_ was his soulmate? Oh, _God_.

The doors opened while they stared at one another, and Ra's al Ghul swept in with a handful of his retainers in his wake. He arrived smiling, an expression of joy on his solemn features, and as he walked in he was saying, “Welcome, _bin til jameela_ , you have been much missed…”

He trailed off as he took in the scene, Bruce and the woman both turning toward him. She held out her hand, turning it to show the now-complete soulmark; Bruce was caught with his own mark exposed.

Ra's looked between the two of them, and his countenance turned murderous. He snapped an order, and before Bruce could think through his reactions, another trainee stepped up and struck him over the head, knocking him unconscious.


	2. Chapter 2

He woke in a cell. Bruce sat up with a groan, feeling the back of his skull. A swollen bump twinged at his touch, but it wasn't the worst injury he'd received in the League's training. Heaving a sigh, he looked around the cell. Knowing Ra's al Ghul, escape would be impossible. Still, it was foolish not to even look.

A single roll of foam mattress on a metal shelf made up his bed. The sink and commode were also metal, securely bolted to the wall. The walls were tightly-joined stone, the front of the cell made up of sturdy iron bars from floor to ceiling. No windows, and the door was securely locked. They'd taken his weapons and left him nothing to use as a lockpick.

A voice spoke from the shadowy corridor, feminine and mocking.  “You are _shockingly_ overconfident for one so slow and clumsy.”

It had to be _her_. And oh, as she stepped into the light his throat dried up and his eyes widened. She had been beautiful when all he could see was her face above assassin's black. Now, in a long and flowing white dress heavily embroidered in gold at the neck and hem (and along the side slit halfway to heaven), she was _stunning_.  She stood outside his cell with her arms crossed, her chin lifted, glaring at him. Her eyes were the rich brown of the potent coffee served here, and just as scalding.

The words finally made it through, and Bruce flushed. He was _not_ slow or clumsy, he was one of the best in the compound … and she'd defeated him in a handful of moves, so he bit back a retort. Compared to her, he _was_ slow, and high on the list of things he wanted to know was how she'd gotten so skilled. She looked no more than his own age, but none of the other young men were as good as she was.

Instead, he asked, “What's your name?”

“Why do you deserve to know it?” she parried effortlessly.

By way of answer, he tugged his shirt collar down, showing her his soulmark. That made her eyes go stony, so he said quickly, “At least you can see yours. I don't even know what mine looks like now.”

She lifted her hand and _glared_ at it, as if it had profoundly insulted her. He could see the patterns more clearly now; they looked a bit like the elegant designs some of the local women drew on their skin with henna. “Yours is much like mine,” she said grudgingly. “Though yours is warmer in hue.”

“You don't seem very happy about this,” he said cautiously.

“Why should I be?” she countered.

He stood at the bars, watching her, and shrugged. “Some people never find their soulmate.”

“ _Soulmate?”_ she said with withering scorn. “Why should I want or believe in such fairytales? Rather I would forge my own destiny. Whereas I suppose _you_ want to plan the wedding already, before you even know my _name_. Or anything about me, save that I am by far the better warrior.”

“And that you're beautiful,” Bruce replied in worshipful tones.

She sneered at that. “So? If you wish to own beauty, buy a painting. I am no man's possession.”

Her vehemence set him back on his  heels, just staring for a long moment. He'd never met a young woman who didn't preen at being complimented. She was definitely something else. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to sound that way.”

“Apologies are for cowards. Say what you mean, and own it,” she proclaimed.

He tried a different tack, casting for some kind of rapport with this utterly fascinating woman. “You're right, we don't know anything about each other, but I'm trying to change that.”

She flicked her hair over her shoulder imperiously, and said, “You are Bruce Wayne, of Gotham City in the United States. Twenty-one, an orphan since age ten, the sole heir to a considerable fortune. You think you are here in search of training in the martial arts. Truly, you are a man in search of his purpose.”

He blinked. She must have spoken to the others. “You're _very_ well-informed. Care to tell me why I'm in a cell? You challenged me first.”

She smirked at him. “The same reason I am supposed to be locked in my rooms. My father is rather protective.”

“Your _father_ …” he began, and his belly turned to ice. So Ra's al Ghul had a daughter. A young and beautiful daughter who was Bruce's soulmate. Also highly displeased by the match _and_ the whole concept of soulmates.

Oh, God, he was _doomed_.

He swallowed, and asked, “If you're supposed to be locked in your rooms, what are you doing down here?”

She lifted one shoulder in a graceful, dismissive shrug. “I don’t do _everything_ my father commands. I wanted to at least see my supposed soulmate.” She stepped back, looking him up and down with a frankness that made him feel naked under her gaze. “Attractive enough, I suppose.”

Being regarded and then so casually dismissed, like a butcher assessing a cut of meat, woke his temper, but Bruce kept it leashed. She'd just taught him _exactly_ why women didn't like being stared at by men, and why she scorned him for remarking on her looks.

She knew very well how beautiful she was; she saw it in every mirror, just as he saw the brilliant eyes and broad shoulders and square jaw that made girls stammer in his presence. And it mattered as little to her as it did to him, because the girls fawning over his face and his muscles had no idea who he really was. He wasn't real, to girls like that, and a woman as knockout gorgeous as this one knew that for most men, she existed only as an object to be desired and fantasized over.

Bruce leaned against the bars, his arms folded on a cross-brace. Maybe he'd found a pick that could coax open the lock she was clearly keeping on any emotion stronger than disdain. “I know,” he said. “But that's not what it's important about me. Any more than being beautiful is what's important about you. How did you learn to fight like that? I bet you could take on any of the men here, and all of them outweigh you.”

She smiled, a flash of white teeth as much threat as amusement. “I have been in training since I could walk and grip a sword-hilt. I am the Daughter of the Demon; if you think my father trains _you_ intensely, I assure you, you have not seen the half of it.” And then she came closer to the bars, mirroring his posture with negligent grace - and the obvious assurance that if he tried to grab at her, she'd be more than capable of defending herself. “As for all of these _dangerous_ men who are, indeed, so much larger and heavier than I … the bullock outweighs the tigress, but he is ever her prey. Size and strength alone do not win a battle. More valuable are courage, ferocity, skill … and precision.”

Saying that, she slipped a delicate hand between the bars, and touched the side of his neck, just the briefest glancing caress of fingertips. The soulmark warmed at her touch, and Bruce relied on training not to let his reaction show. He kept his face impassive. “To think, all your life you have borne the mark of your defeat at my hand,” she mused, her eyes softening a little. “Whatever did you think it was, all this time?”

“My father thought it might have been a doctor taking my pulse,” Bruce said.  “I never had any good guesses. I mostly haven’t thought about it, for years. What did you think yours was?”

She met his gaze fearlessly.  “A strike in sparring. I taught myself to use my other hand primarily, so as to avoid giving the blow, but _you_ very nearly injured my sword-hand with that foolish attack.”

“It was on purpose.  I already knew I was beaten.  I just didn’t want to lose _that_ badly,” he admitted.

“Oh, so you are proud as well as foolish,”she said.

“And you’re cruel,” he replied.  

“If I were cruel, I would leave you here,” she said, smiling coldly.  “I challenged you because you were ignorant enough to dismiss me - and because I have fought all of my father’s men.  Each of them thought _he_ might be the one whose mark matched mine, and each of them was soundly disabused of the notion.  Now that they know _you_ are my supposed soulmate - American interloper that you are - they will kill you out of jealousy.”

“They can try,” he told her, but if they all came at him at once, his death was assured.  And by the look Ra’s al Ghul had given him when he saw their marks, no rescue would be forthcoming.

She scoffed.  “They would slaughter you in your cell like a lamb.  Go, instead. Find your meaning elsewhere. Live your life far away from me.”  And saying that, she reached for his hand, placing a key into his palm.

Bruce closed his fingers over her hand, touching the mark, and saw the flicker in her dark eyes as it warmed to him.  For just that instant, her self-possession wavered; she looked young and unsure of herself.

The next second, she drew back, giving him a secretive smile.  “Farewell, _ya ruhi_.  This was at least a better meeting than I thought it would be.”  And she turned to walk away.

“Wait,” Bruce called after her.  “At least tell me your name!” But she merely shook her head, and disappeared.

Leaving him with the key to his cell, and a choice.

Too bad he’d never taken the easy way out of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ya ruhi_ "my soul", used ironically here.
> 
> Poor Bruce, impressing her is not going to be easy.


	3. Chapter 3

Ra's al Ghul was into his second bottle of arak, the glasses piling up around him.  He downed the strong translucent liquor as he tried to puzzle out his next move.

So he had finally found his daughter’s soulmate.  Bruce Wayne, whose hunger for justice rang true to his own soul.  He had been patiently waiting for the young man to realize that only vengeance would silence the echoes of the gunshots that had taken his parents’ lives.  Once he crossed that line, once he killed, he would be ready for the next step of training. And in truth, Ra’s did admire him greatly. He was keenly intelligent as well as strongly determined, and a truly gifted warrior.

But Ra’s had not yet considered him for Talia.  Truthfully, he had hoped she would never find the one whose soulmark matched hers.  Let her chart her own path through life, as she so clearly desired. Ra’s knew too well the pain of loving and losing a soulmate, his own mark long since faded until only he could trace its patterns.

Now he had a choice to make.  What to do with Wayne? The other men might try to kill him now.  Much to Talia’s annoyance, she was coveted by many of them. Ra’s had done his best to ensure that those under his employ knew his daughter was off-limits, but some seemed not to take the hint.  And some of them were stubborn enough to see the soulmarks as something to be challenged, some mark of favor.

He became aware of a commotion further down the corridor that led to these rooms, and rose with an aggrieved sigh, going to the door with his sword in hand.  Perhaps the challenges had already begun.

To his surprise, Ra’s saw Bruce fighting four of his guards, and holding his own.  Raising an eyebrow, he strode toward them, calling to Bruce, “She is not here.”

“I came to speak with _you_ , not your daughter,” Bruce retorted, and knocked out one of the guards.  

Now _that_ was interesting.  Ra’s called them off, one hand on his sword, and eyed Bruce.  “I do not recall telling you she was my daughter,” he said.

The younger man’s eyes darted away for a brief second, proving his next words a lie.  “Between the resemblance and your reaction, it wasn’t hard to figure out.”

“She told you,” Ra’s mused.  “And gave you the key to the cell, I wager.  Did she challenge you to fight your way to me?”

Caught, Bruce laughed, as only young men laugh.  “No, she told me to _leave_.  But I’m not that easily dissuaded.  I came here to learn from you, not to find the love of my life.  And she doesn’t want anything to do with me, so there’s no point in pursuing her.  That doesn’t change the fact that I still intend to learn all you can teach me.”

Well then.  _That_ was unexpected.  Ra’s nodded, sheathed his sword, and turned.  “Come with me,” he said, leading Bruce back to his study.

He poured arak for them both, and when Bruce took it cautiously, Ra’s lifted his own glass.  “To determination,” he said, and Bruce raised his, both of them drinking. The strong, aniseed-flavored liquor went down with the same warmth as always, and Ra’s took his seat, regarding Bruce across the desk.  “Keeping you here, now that your soulmark has answered to my daughter’s, is going to be a constant battle. You had best make my efforts worthwhile.”

“Have I ever failed you?” Bruce challenged.

“Daily,” Ra’s told him dryly.  “Only because you are young, of soft upbringing, and came late to my tutelage.  You do not let failure stop you, though, and that I honor.”

The younger man’s eyes had narrowed at that, and he responded with a hint of the coldness Ra’s sensed in his nature, a distance echoed in his own.  “Nothing will stop me. I made a vow.”

Ah yes, that touching promise he’d made to his dead parents.  Ra’s nodded, and continued in calm level voice, “If I find you are deceiving me to get to her, or if I learn you so much as touched her hair without her permission, I will cut your hands off and geld you.”

Bruce did not even flinch.  “I would deserve that. Though having met her, I think she would kill me before you could do so.”

Ra’s nodded.  “It will be easier in a few months.  She leaves for college in the autumn.  Until then, know that you will be hated by all the others, and they may try to kill you.”

“She told me she’s no one’s property, and if they think they can win her by killing me, they’re idiots,” Bruce replied coldly.  “At least when she goes back to college, they might settle down.”

Ra’s glanced at him, raising an eyebrow.  So he didn’t know. “She is not returning to college,” he said, and saw the perplexed look.  It made him smile ruthlessly. “This will be her first year. She is seventeen years old.”

And had the satisfaction of watching Bruce’s face turn even paler at that news.


	4. Chapter 4

_Seventeen._  Oh, hell, no wonder Ra’s was overprotective. It was a good thing Bruce had already decided she was off-limits, no matter how intriguing she might be; this moment could’ve been a _lot_ more embarrassing otherwise.

And all of these men, some older than Bruce, were trying to make a play for her _knowing_ that?  Suddenly he wanted to kick some teeth in.  

Of course, the next thought in line was the realization that he’d been very effectively beaten by a woman who was four years his junior.  “She wasn’t kidding about being better trained,” he finally said, polishing off the liquor. “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Ra’s actually smiled a little at that thought.  “She is the superior fighter to any man here, to almost any man in my employ.  Neither she nor I would accept less.”

A knock at the door interrupted them, and Ra’s called out for them to enter.  Two of his men stepped in, both looking as if they’d been in a fight, with his daughter between them.  She did a double-take on seeing Bruce, and arched a brow. Meanwhile the guard on her left was saying, “Sir, you told us to confine her to quarters, but we found her in the common room.”

“I am not a child to be sent to my room for your convenience, Father,” she said frostily.  “And your men were in need of a reminder just who decides my future.”

“Very well, I shall rescind that order, since it appears I have no one in my employ capable of enforcing it.  I trust you gave the men their lesson without unnecessary bloodshed?” Ra’s asked as he dismissed the guards.

She shrugged one shoulder imperiously.  “They will live. Are you sending Wayne home to America?”

“No,” Ra’s said.  “I am afraid you will have to put up with his presence a while longer, since he is so determined to continue his studies.”

She scoffed at that, and Bruce felt a pang in his chest.  Her opinion already mattered to him, even this swiftly. He looked up at her - she did _not_ look seventeen, or act it, but that didn’t matter - and said, “Since we’re going to have to tolerate each other, I might as well know your name.”

Her smile was not at all friendly.  “ _Earn_ it,” she said, and stalked out.

The door closed behind her, and Bruce turned to Ra’s, who simply shook his head.  “I will not interfere in such a challenge. But … a word to the wise, Bruce.” The older man held out his hand, turning it under the light.  “Do you see the lines there, on my palm?”

Leaning close, Bruce could almost make them out.  They must have been patterns like the ones on his daughter’s hand, graceful flowing lines so faded that only fragments remained.  “Your soulmark?”

“What is left of it,” Ra’s replied.  “I loved the mother of my daughter, and I was happy with her at my side - but she was not my soulmate.  _She_ passed many years ago, more than you would believe.  And given the choice of having such a great love only to suffer so much grief, I do not know what I would choose.  The young man I once was reached for such consuming love with both hands. The man I am now knows too well the sorrow of loss.  Be careful, Bruce.”

Wise words, indeed, but Bruce was young enough - and intrigued enough - not to heed them.


	5. Chapter 5

Bruce set himself a personal goal, of learning her name before she left for the University of Cairo.  And getting her to tell him, because asking someone else felt like cheating - and the rest soon heard how she’d cast down that particular gauntlet, so they wouldn’t have told him anyway.  The other men all watched him with wary anger, but when he didn’t pursue her, their distaste faded. He bore their anger with stoic silence, focusing on one goal: train hard enough to impress his teacher’s daughter.

To that end, he pushed himself even further, studying and sparring and working out every wakeful moment.  He could sense his mentor’s cautious approval, as Ra’s selected him for more and more difficult exercises.  Bruce acquired new scars along the way, but he soon led the group of trainees in every test set before them.

And still, the young woman who was his soulmate exceeded him, almost effortlessly.  She had as little as possible to do with him, and scorned him when their paths did cross, but he bore that with equanimity, focused on his goal.  Aware, too, that he represented something altogether different to her than she did to him. She was a new vista of possibilities for him, while he seemed like just a closed door to her.

So Bruce moved to studying _her_ , trying to see what made her so skilled and how he could apply it himself.  Some of it was long habit; even sitting down to dinner with her father and wearing one of her lovely gowns, she still moved with the graceful economy of a true martial artist.  The martial aspect was most clear, in the challenge of her dark eyes he saw a spirit trained for war, but so was the artistic side. She loved beauty and elegance, and if she had a choice of moves to finish a fight, she would pick the one that looked best.  In the heat of sparring she always chose ruthless efficiency; only at the end would she let her fondness for dramatic takedowns show.

Part of studying her was watching her fight.  She did not seek him out for any reason, not even to give him a good drubbing by way of warning, and he did not ask her to spar, wanting to learn more before he engaged her.  It annoyed her to be watched, but very few of the challenges or training were ever conducted privately. Most sparring bouts acquired an audience, yet Bruce made a point of watching her, specifically, studying her form.  She was utterly deadly with a sword, or two of them, and he doubted he’d ever be her equal in that weapon. She really must have been practicing since she was a child.

She tended to spar early in the mornings, earlier than he even liked to be awake, but for the sake of learning Bruce crawled out of bed well before dawn.  And on the day when he finally saw the slightest flaw in her skill, the sun was just rising as he sat on the low stone wall and watched the battle between his mentor’s daughter and two of the guards.  She was magnificent, a bokken in each hand, turning endlessly between strike and block and parry, running both of her father’s guards ragged as they tried to keep up with her.

Despite the chill of the high altitude, all three of them were sweating with the exercise.  She had dressed for ease of movement, loose pants and a sleeveless top, and Bruce could almost swear he saw steam rising from her skin.  A treacherous part of his mind wondered how she dressed for warm weather, hoping for something that bared her toned midriff. He shut down that line of thought quickly, for self-preservation’s sake.  He’d already observed why all of her dresses had skirts split to the thigh: in those, she could kick as high as a man’s throat, and did so at need.

She ended the bout quickly, disarming one guard and striking him across the thigh with the bokken; if it had been a sword, he’d be an amputee or dead.  The other she dispatched just as swiftly. Bruce narrowed his eyes, watching her. There was something there, some slight difference, a choice she made that seemed uncharacteristic of her style…

She gave her opponents a short bow, turned, and stalked toward him, still with a wooden blade in each hand.  He sat up straighter at her approach, meeting her gaze with a questioning look. She stood over him, close enough for him to smell the clean sweat of exertion and some faint scent beneath it, a trace of perfume perhaps.  For the moment she just glared, still breathing hard from the fight, and was an effort of will to meet her gaze and pay no attention to the way her breasts rose and fell beneath her blouse. _Seventeen,_ he told himself warningly, _and she hates you._  Even if he was working on the latter, the former still applied.

She hadn’t struck him, but hadn’t spoken yet either, so he risked saying, “Sayedah al Ghul?” in his most polite, correct voice.

 _That_ turned her glare nearly murderous, and in this alone, Bruce let himself tease her.  Since he did not know her name, ‘Lady al Ghul’ _was_ the correct and respectful form of address.  It also carried a connotation of age, which plainly infuriated her, but she could not object without opening herself up to being called by diminutives.  And _that_ , she would never tolerate.  He wondered if the beleaguered look he’d seen in his mentor’s eyes had anything to do with that.

“Do you see something you like, Wayne?” she finally snapped at him.

He blinked, surprised by the challenge, and realized she thought he was staring just to ogle.  He also realized in that instant what was off in her sparring. Bruce grinned fiercely at her. “I see an advantage,” he said, and rose from the bench swiftly, invading her personal space.

She gave ground not out of intimidation, but to secure a better position, already falling into fighting stance.  Even as she moved, even as Bruce himself was still off balance, he struck at the one slight weakness he’d discovered.  The bokken had no edge, so he was able to grab the one in her left hand by the blade, twisting it until she was forced to let go.

That earned him another step back, her eyes blazing at his temerity, and he quickly shifted the wooden blade to attack position.  It was uncouth, not to salute one’s opponent first, but he doubted she would wait for such formalities.

She did not disappoint, bringing her right-hand bokken around with blinding speed.  Bruce met it, checked it, and bore in, taking the offensive. She parried him easily, but his point was not to score a hit, merely to keep her moving fast enough that she could not switch hands.

“And what advantage could you possibly see?” she growled, and that was another, right there.  The fact that he was fresh and she had already fought this morning might just be a third, but he had seen her stamina and doubted it would make much difference.

“You’re afraid,” he told her, purposefully making her angrier.  “Afraid of that mark that matches mine. You’re right-handed, and you trained all your life to use your left in fighting, just so you could avoid meeting your soulmate.  It’d be an advantage to you, except you’ve made your right side weaker. All out of fear of finding _me._ ”

The two watching the fight stirred at that, but Bruce ignored them.  If they interfered with a challenge in progress, their punishment would be severe.

She bared her teeth at him.  “You know nothing of me. You are simply braying aloud, like the ignorant ass you are.”  Her attacks grew vicious, aimed at his unprotected joints, and even off-balance and using her weaker hand, he could barely keep up with her.

The sword in his hands wasn’t his real weapon in this fight, and Bruce pressed his point further.  “I know enough. I know you’re failing one of your father’s first lessons, right now. But then, you’re young.  That’s only to be expected.”

Another deliberate insult, and the fire in her eyes was hot enough to scorch.  The crack of the two wooden blades meeting was loud enough to draw attention, and Bruce knew they’d have more witnesses soon.  He let her drive him, choosing where and how to fall back. “I have more years of battle than you, _sharmoota,_ ” she snapped.  “You soft, pathetic American, you came too late to this life.”

“And I’m still holding my own here, _little girl_ ,” he pointed out, which drove her to fury.  “So what does that say about _you_?”

“That my mercy is wasted on a fool,” came the furious reply, and then he had no breath to respond, needing every ounce of skill and training and luck to hold her off as she attacked him savagely.  

For the first time in a long time, he found himself afraid of serious injury.  The wrath in her eyes was chilling, and if she’d held an edged weapon, even in her weaker hand, he would have been in serious trouble.  Only the fact that he’d dressed in light armor, and the practice blade in her hand, was keeping him upright as she rained blows on him.

Her rage was her second weakness, and Bruce let himself be driven, carefully maneuvering until he had her between him and the low stone wall.  Only then did he drive in with a counterattack, relying on main force instead of finesse. Doing so risked breaking the bokken, but his strength and reach were his only physical advantages against a fighter of her superlative skill.

She should have yielded and stepped aside, but she was too angry to give ground to him, trying to strike around his guard.  All he needed was a tiny bit of luck, and his entire being narrowed to focus solely on her, looking for an opening.

Finally she gave him one, her weapon lashing viciously at his lightly protected throat, a blow that could have been fatal if it had landed.  But she invested too much speed and power to turn it when he blocked and bound the blade. He rushed her then, more like a linebacker than a swordsman, and drove her back against the wall with both their weapons locked at throat height.  Outrage and shock warred in her eyes, but he outweighed her significantly, and he’d slammed into her with enough force to knock the breath from her for an instant.

Bruce wasn’t stupid enough to think he could hold her there, and even if it could, just making her angry wasn’t his real goal.  He stepped back a little to give her space, still holding on to both bokken so she couldn’t just step around, and gave her his sunniest grin.  “You father always tells me I need to mind my surroundings,” he said. “ _You_ need to mind your temper.  Nothing a soft ignorant American jackass says to you should get you angry enough to lose control of your weapon, even for a second.  You _are_ the Daughter of the Demon, and you’re also the best damn warrior here.”

The contrast between the insults of moments ago and that admission of her superiority clearly confused her.  She blinked, tilted her head, and he saw her realize _exactly_ how calculated his every move had been.  The smile that won him still had too much teeth in it to be comfortable - and he knew there would be retribution later - but the smattering of applause around them made him glance up.

He had not, in fact, been minding his surroundings, and they’d drawn a larger audience than Bruce would’ve guessed.  One of whom was Ra’s al Ghul himself, looking at them like he couldn’t decide whether to nod approval or have Bruce killed.  Perhaps that was always a father’s dilemma.

“Well said, and well fought,” she replied, and he looked back in time to see her expression change again, to amusement.  “My name is Talia.”

Bruce nodded to her, still holding onto the bokken; no one had surrendered yet.  “Pleased to meet you, Talia al Ghul.”

“Likewise,” she laughed, and he felt only the slightest nick at his belly.

Shying back, Bruce had to let go of her blade to grab his pants; she’d drawn a dagger without him even seeing it, and sliced neatly through his belt when he’d said her name.  The cut to his skin was shallow and less than an eighth of an inch long, but she’d effectively put him out of the fight.

Talia stepped forward, smirking, a weapon in each hand again, and Bruce grounded his blade to signal his surrender.  “Your victory,” he said. “As we both knew it would be from the first.”

“Call that a draw,” she replied generously.  “And the first any of Father’s trainees have scored in four years.  You still have much to learn, but perhaps you are not _entirely_ hopeless.”

He bowed to her then, and she acknowledged him with a nod.  The _real_ victory was his, and it came after the fight, when Talia looked at him and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _sharmoota_ equivalent to 'bitch' or 'asshole'


	6. Chapter 6

One fight proved him worthy of notice, and Bruce did _not_ press any perceived advantage.  Talia knew he was interested, of course, but he made it plain that he was interested in _who_ she was more than her looks or their matching soulmarks.  They had time enough to begin a friendship before she left for Cairo, and though Ra’s watched them carefully, Bruce made sure there was nothing untoward for him to see.

Bruce wrote letters to Talia while he was in training and she was away at university, studying medicine.  Very innocuous letters, because he was certain her father read them, and with distance she had decided to tease him flirtatiously in print.  He dared not respond to those overtures, with Ra’s still eyeing him dubiously.

Talia told him about Cairo and the weight of history there, her studies and how they fascinated her, sometimes just that she missed her father and daily sword-training.  And then in the next paragraph she’d mention that she’d taken up belly-dancing to stay fit, and he could almost hear her laughter at the way that mental image made him blush.  In reply he told her about his own advanced work, having left the trainees behind to learn stealth and subterfuge among the initiated of the League.

Bruce himself had not yet killed.  No matter how carefully Ra’s set him up for it, there was _always_ a way to avoid bringing further death into a world thick with it.  He did not mention that to Talia, in case anyone else read their letters.  Instead he told her he was learning Farsi, the better to read Rumi, whom she had mentioned was one of her favorite poets.  The man spoke eloquently and hauntingly of love and faith, and Bruce read his work as much for himself as for insight into Talia.

The attraction he felt for her was magnetic, ever drawing him toward her.  Bruce thought he would feel the same even without the soulmark on his neck reminding him every time he glanced into a mirror.  For her part, Talia enjoyed toying with him, calling him _ya ruhi_ in gentle mockery.  Most of her vehemence had faded when he proved he wasn’t going to demand her hand in marriage, and that he wasn’t trying to seduce her, either.  Of course, that led to her playful flirtations, enjoying his flustered discomfiture.

Talia came home for two weeks over winter break, and promptly thrashed every one of her father’s men in her first two days back.  Bruce took his beating with good grace, and she even told him he’d made progress since she saw him last. He still wasn’t prepared to see her sweep through the common dining room on her way to her father’s table, wearing an emerald green dress embroidered in black and gold, and once again her beauty hit him like a sledgehammer to the forehead.  

 _Too young for you,_ he scolded himself, and kept his mind on training.

After a long day of practice, running across rooftops and falling at least once and then sparring despite the bruises, he was feeling quite sore and sorry for himself.  One advantage of this new location was the hot mineral springs located in one of the mountain caves, and after a shower to wash off the grime, Bruce headed there to soak his aches and pains away.

Except he wasn’t the only one who knew about those springs.  The other men used them too, but they tended to cordially ignore one another.  When Bruce arrived this particular night, though, he found only Talia seated in the hottest of the pools, her skin flushed and her hair starting to curl from the humidity.  Of course after two days of intense fighting, she’d be sore too, and he stamped down on the part of his mind that wanted to offer a massage.

She smirked at him, and he became acutely aware that the loose pants he was wearing wouldn’t hide _anything_.  Luckily he’d brought towels, which he held in front of himself.  “Your pardon, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he managed to say. “I’ll come back later.”

“No need,” she purred, her eyes alight with mischief.  “I was just leaving.” And so saying, she stood up from the steaming water.

Nude.

 _Holy mother of God she is **perfect**_ , he thought, even as he tore his gaze away and looked straight up at the ceiling.  Bruce cleared his throat, still forcing his eyes upward. “Talia. Um. You’re … naked.”

“Well of course,” she laughed at him, the minx.  “How else do you bathe?”

He counted stalactites as if his life depended on it, blushing fiercely, as she slipped into a robe without any haste whatsoever.  She strolled up to him, chuckling, knowingly tormenting him. “You act as if you’ve never seen a woman before.”

“I have, thanks, but this is you,” Bruce replied, risking a glance at her.  The robe clung to her damp skin in ways that were almost more alluring than she’d been without it.   _Almost_.

“And it’s different because I’m your _soulmate_?” she teased, standing entirely too close.  “Or because I’m my father’s daughter?”

“Those are both factors,” Bruce admitted.  “Mostly, though, it’s because you’re underage.”

Her eyebrows went up at that.  “ _Underage_?  How prudish of you.  Do you truly think any such law applies here, to me?  Or worse, you think I’m some naive innocent flower you intend to despoil?”

“I never said…” he began, but she leaned in close, her eyes fierce on his.

“I am not,” Talia proclaimed, and made the last word a purr, “ _innocent_.”

Bruce swallowed, even his ears burning with the intensity of his blush, and she smiled wickedly up at him.  He managed to say, trying to be equal to her challenge, “So when _is_ your birthday, Talia?”

The smirk he got in response was positively salacious, and she trailed her fingertips down his chest.  Her voice was low and throaty, full of promise. “Why? Do you intend to give me a _present_?”

And as if that weren’t bad enough, she looked down brazenly, where the towel he was using to hide his reaction was absolutely failing at the task.  Talia grinned, told him, “Perhaps you should visit the _cold_ springs instead,” and slipped past him, laughing all the way out.

“Maybe I should just go out and sit in a snowbank,” Bruce muttered to himself.  Nothing less would cool him off, at that point.


	7. Chapter 7

Time marched ever onward, and eventually Talia’s birthday arrived.  Bruce was nowhere near Cairo, off on one of the League’s assignments in Kazakhstan, but they still exchanged letters via email.  At least, whenever he could get a signal. Talia told him how her father had summoned her out into the Egyptian desert for their own little tradition, a sword fight with live steel, and Bruce had been chilled to read that she’d actually been wounded.  _I will have a new scar when next we see each other,_ she’d told him, then added proudly, _But Father has several more._

Apparently they’d been fighting on her birthday ever since she was a child, and not for the first time Bruce sat back and wondered what he was really doing here.  Anyone who could be so ruthless as to fight a _child,_ much less their _own_ child … but the results spoke for themselves, as Talia was the equal of almost any warrior.

Her father had also given her an _island_ for her birthday, and Bruce knew the Demon’s wealth was staggering.  His own gift had been much more humble, but he hoped it counted for something.  The men they rode with in Kazakhstan kept semi-tame eagles the way other men kept falcons, with which they hunted wolves.  Knowing how much Talia loved poetry, Bruce sent her a few new volumes thereof, and a bookmark made from the flight feather of one of those magnificent eagles.  She claimed to adore the gift, and teased him about having something else in mind.

It was months afterward that they were finally reunited, back in the mountains where they’d first met.  Bruce hadn’t even known she was on her way back during the semester break until she’d walked into the training room where he was working out with a heavy bag, perfecting his strikes and kicks.

“I must be terribly out of shape after months of books,” Talia said breezily, approaching him.  She was dressed for sparring, but the sight of her laughing smile made his heart seize no matter how conservative her clothing.  Nothing could dim her beauty, in any case. She saw his surprise, and smirked. “Make yourself useful, _ya ruhi_.  I won’t bruise my knuckles too badly on a soft American boy.”

“You might be surprised,” he told her, turning to face her and bowing in respect even as she did.  He had always focused more on hand-to-hand than the sword, which was her preference.

Talia attacked him with her signature grace, and no hint of laxness in her form; she was taunting him again, of course.  Bruce blocked and got in strikes of his own, losing himself to the rhythm of the fight. He still had the advantages of weight and strength and reach - but she still had agility, speed, and experience on her side.  Though in that last, he was finally narrowing the gap.

They fought without speaking, alone in the training room, though not for long by Bruce’s estimate.  Sooner or later someone else would arrive, and he was careful in how he approached her, even in the midst of sparring.

Until she slipped past his guard, tripped him up, and pinned him down to the mats.  Talia sat astride his waist and grinned at him triumphantly. “Still so _slow_.  I could have danced away from that.”

“You’re always going to be faster,” he managed to say, trying not to think about how she looked so very at home, perched atop him.  

She preened at the praise.  “Did you miss having someone about who could take you down so easily?”

“Not necessarily, but I missed _you,_ ” he admitted.

Talia gave him a smug smile, keeping his hands pinned, and leaned down.  Her hair had been pulled up, but a few strands had worked loose in sparring, and they tickled his cheek as she whispered, “Tell me, Wayne, if you missed me so … have you said _my_ name against another woman’s breast?”

He drew in a ragged breath at that, and the way she shifted above him when she said it.  “Haven’t exactly … had time for women,” Bruce admitted in a taut voice, as Talia swivelled her hips.  The pants they both wore were loose enough he swore he could feel the heat of her through them … and she was surely noticing his own state of mind.

“I see,” she chuckled, and kissed his jaw.  Then, deliberately, she grazed her lips along the soulmark, making it grow warm under her kiss.  Her voice was low and husky as she continued, “What about at night? When you’re alone? Do you think of me then and say my name into the dark?”

Bruce made a strangled inarticulate noise that meant _yes_ , and his fraying control snapped.  He broke her hold on his wrists, wrapped his arm around her waist, and rolled her under him.  Talia gasped in welcome surprise, and he arched against her, leaving no doubt whatsoever about what he wanted from her.

He kissed her hungrily, and she returned it with equal fervor, both of them breathless when he finally drew back.  She looked up at him, canted her hips to make him groan, and whispered, “I think of you.”

For whatever reason, those words stung him.  She had been so very confident of his desire, and from the first she’d shown a tendency to play with him cruelly.  So even though the thought of her, alone in her bedroom in Cairo as he had been alone so many places, her hand between her own thighs and his name on her lips, even though the mental image of that _alone_ threatened to spill him over … Bruce narrowed his eyes and growled, “Don’t toy with me, Talia.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “I’m not… _You_ were the one who held back.  I would have had you that night at the springs, if you had not been so charmingly hesitant.”

“And you played me, then,” he told her warningly.  “Just because I let you get away with it doesn't mean I appreciate being _mocked_ , Talia.”

She glared back, her lip curling in a sneer, and broke his hold on her.  With her forearm across his throat and a twist of her hips, Bruce was under her again, this time pinned not playfully but with an edge of anger.  “I thought to goad you past your precious sensibilities,” Talia said in threatening tones. “Do you really think the passing of one birthday can have wrought so much change in me?  I was not a child then, magically transformed into an adult in a single day.”

“I doubt you were ever much of a child,” Bruce answered honestly.  “I’m still too much older than you to ignore it.”

She scoffed at him.  “Four years, such a vast gulf of time.  I cannot wait until you learn how old Father truly is.”  Before he could remark on that, she continued, “I’ve passed your official threshold now though, have I not?  Or do I have to call you coward to make you prove otherwise and do what we both want?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Bruce said quietly.  “I’m afraid of hurting you without meaning to.”

Talia sat back a little, regarding him thoughtfully.  “I am not accustomed to such delicacy from men,” she finally admitted.  He remembered how her father’s men had circled like vultures when the soulmark was revealed, each of them jealous in a way that proved they thought of Talia solely as a prize to be won.  None of them bothered to know her for _herself_ , too caught up in lusting after her beauty and the prestige of bedding the Demon’s Daughter.  Dealing with men like that all her life, it was no wonder she’d become cynical.

“Then you’ve been spending time with two-legged dogs, not men,” Bruce replied, and that won him a smile.

Leaning down to kiss him, Talia whispered, “Come to my rooms tonight, after the meal.”

It was such a bad idea, and if her father found out there would be hell to pay, but Bruce had already nodded agreement before she continued, kissing his soulmark again, “I _do_ think of you … so try to live up to my imagination, hm?”

With that she rose from him and departed, an extra sway in her step.  Bruce made himself roll to his feet and return to his workout to focus his mind.  It was just as well, since three of the other men arrived soon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, there will be smut next chapter. I don't know how graphic it will get, just yet, but it might increase the fic's rating.


	8. Chapter 8

She wore the white gown at dinner, and Bruce let himself look at her only once.  His heart stuttered when he did; after months of seeing her in his mind’s eye, the reality of her stunned him.  Bruce kept his focus on the meal and the men around him, mostly ignoring the head table as they did. These men were not trainees, they understood their master’s daughter was off-limits, and they paid her no attention beyond a glance or two.  Bruce emulated them, not wanting to draw attention by too obviously ignoring Talia, and not wanting to stare, either.

This business of keeping secrets was more difficult than he’d first thought.

Afterward, he cleared away his plates like all the others.  They had washed before the meal, but he stopped to wash his hands and face again, and brush his teeth.  Only then did he begin to make his way toward Talia’s suite of rooms, trying to remain unseen. That was difficult, in this place, but not impossible.  He had cultivated the art of moving silently, and he knew the others’ routines well.

Her door was unguarded; Talia’s own fierce reputation was all the guard she needed.  Bruce approached it carefully, listening for voices within. If her father had chosen this night to sit and discuss their future plans with her…

But no, she opened the door as he approached, a warm little smile curving her lips.  Talia caught his shirt and tugged him inside, lacing her hands behind his neck as she leaned up to kiss him.

Finally, _finally_ , he had her in his arms, his soulmark tingling at her touch, and her mouth tasted of mint and honey.  Bruce drew back only for air, and her eyes danced with delight. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough,” Talia purred, carding her fingers through his hair.  “Come to bed, Beloved.”

That pet name, translated into _his_ native tongue where all her jests had been in hers, sent a shiver down his spine.  Bruce picked her up, making Talia laugh softly, and carried her to the waiting bed. She had chosen candlelight, and as he set her down in that warm glow the scent of her perfume rose to him, drawing him irresistibly into another kiss, and another.

Talia’s hands mapped his broad shoulders and began tugging his shirt up.  He stepped back to divest himself of it, then returned to her as she slipped one shoulder free of her dress.  “Not yet,” he whispered, cupping her breasts through the thin material and making her sigh. “This dress is too lovely - and I’ve had something specific in mind since I first saw you in it.”

“Oh, have you now?” she laughed, her voice soft and husky with desire.  “What would that be?”

Bruce kissed her, slow and deep and thorough, his hands framing her body.  “Lie back and I’ll show you,” he whispered.

Her eyes on him were amused and playful until he bent to kiss the inside of her thigh.  Talia looked a little dubious as he slipped her panties off, and Bruce grinned. Either no one had done this for her before, or they hadn’t done it _right_.  Either way, for once the advantage was all his.

He knelt between her thighs, rucking the dress up to her hips, and kissed her again.  Just as passionately as he’d kissed her mouth, giving her every ounce of desire and skill he possessed.  Talia gasped, catching hold of his hair, and he paused to look up at her questioningly. “Yes,” she breathed, arching her hips up to him.  “Oh _yes_ , Beloved, just like that.”

Bruce smiled, and returned to her pleasure and his delight.  He enjoyed this more than almost anything else - _almost_.  And it had the lovely advantage of making everything else they might do together even more enjoyable.

By the end of the night, he’d learned the words for “Oh, God, _yes_ ,” in seven more languages.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten about this story, but trying to get the resolution juuuuuust right hasn't been as smooth a process as I hoped.

As discreet as they tried to be, young lovers were rarely successful in their efforts.  And so it was that Bruce and Talia were eventually discovered.

He’d found her in the library and quoted Rumi to her, which led her to kiss him, which landed them both on the chaise, Talia in his lap and keeping him pinned down with fierce kisses, as Bruce’s hands roved her body restlessly.

They both heard the door open, too well-trained to ignore their surroundings even in a moment this distracting, and Talia sat up, tossing her hair back, one hand falling to the knife at her hip automatically.  Bruce could only reach the small stiletto at the nape of his neck, still turning his head to see the intruder.

Ra’s al Ghul stood in the doorway, two of his guards at his side, plainly shocked to find them so.

Talia recovered first.  “Do you _mind_ , Father?” she said imperiously, and Bruce quailed, thinking that tone was an excellent way to get herself locked up in her rooms until she turned thirty - and get _him_ killed.

To his surprise, Ra’s turned on his heel and left them, _without_ giving an order to his guards, who followed him in equal bemusement.  Bruce groaned, pressing one hand against his face.

“Easy, Beloved,” Talia told him.  “It’s quite obvious I chose to be where I am.”

“He’s still your father.  And he’s going to be furious with me,” Bruce sighed in response.

“Then let _me_ handle him,” Talia said, with queenly arrogance.  “I dare him to pretend anger to me.”

Bruce stroked her hip.  “Don’t approach it like that.  He’s only worried for you because he loves you, Talia.  I can’t blame him. We talked about this, before, when I was still certain you’d never so much as speak civilly to me.”

She narrowed her eyes.  “Ah, so he _did_ speak to you.  Did he give you his pretty speech about striking off your hands and gelding you if you touched me?”

Bruce chuckled then.  “Yes, if I did so without your consent.  I told him I was more worried about _you_ than him.”

“As you should be,” she replied, mollified.  “He did not raise me to be a shy little flower, cowering in fear that some man might crush me.  He is being foolish.”

“He’s being a father,” Bruce corrected, but gently.

She sighed, and rose from his lap.  “Since we are discovered, we may as well adjourn to my rooms.  Come, Beloved.”

Even though he knew it was unwise, Bruce went with her.

 

…

 

It seemed there would be no censure; Ra’s offered no commentary at dinner that night.  From what Bruce saw of the head table, Talia didn’t broach the subject.

Bruce didn’t like having that knowledge hanging over their heads.  He’d seen the rage swift as wildfire in the older man’s eyes when he first saw their soulmarks.  And he knew how deeply Ra’s cherished his daughter. No man would find it easy to see some foreign upstart paying court to his most-loved child.

Before he could summon the courage to request an audience and explain himself, Ra’s approached him after dinner.  “Be ready to rise early, Wayne,” he said. “I intend to go hunting tomorrow, and could use an extra hand to manage the hounds.”

“Yes, sir,” Bruce said, inclining his head respectfully.  

He thought that Ra’s intended to get him alone for a serious conversation, but to his surprise when they set out that morning, Talia joined them.  It was just her, himself, Ra’s, their three horses, two pairs of silky-coated sighthounds … and a falcon sitting on Talia’s gloved hand. She glanced at Bruce in surprise, then told her father, “The gyr is rather heavy, still.  I can bring her, if you’d like. She may still hunt.”

“The saker will be sufficient,” Ra’s replied.  “Let us ride before the chukar leave the hillside.”

No one spoke of the previous day, and Bruce decided he wasn’t going to be the one to start _that_ conversation.  Ra’s had some purpose in inviting him along, and bringing Talia as well, but he’d failed the last few times he tried to outguess his mentor.  Better to simply be ready for anything.

It was a punishing climb.  Bruce was a competent horseman, but Ra’s and Talia rode as if they’d been born in the saddle, and the path they followed was steep, narrow, and winding.  This early, the only sound was the sighing of the wind, the horses’ hooves clicking against stones on the path, and occasionally the faint chime of the falcon’s bells.

They reached a halfway level spot beneath an even steeper ridge, and Ra’s stopped, looking upward.  “What do you think, Talia?”

She scanned the slope with a practiced eye, then looked at Bruce.  Obviously she knew her father had ulterior motives as well, but she was just as reluctant as Bruce to broach the topic.  So she said only, “We should get a slip. Shall I take her up?”

“Go ahead,” Ra’s said.  Talia glanced once at Bruce - for all that Ra’s had said he was coming along to help with the hounds, he had done nothing so far, the dogs trotting obediently near the horses - and gave a low whistle.  The four dogs set out to follow her … and Bruce sucked in a breath as she rode up the ridge, along a track he would’ve thought only a mountain goat could follow.

Ra’s spoke beside him.  “There are likely chukar hiding in the brush.  Perhaps snowcock as well, maybe even francolin, though I think it too dry for them here.  Talia will set loose the falcon and wait for her to reach a suitable height. Then the dogs will be let go to flush the birds.  The falcon will stoop and kill whatever they start up. And if they should happen to start a hare, the dogs are quite capable of catching that for us as well.  Further east, hunters train their falcons to hunt the hares, too, but here we use them only for birds, and let the dogs take the hares.”

Bruce nodded, wondering what this little hunting lesson served in the greater scheme of things, and Ra’s sighed in what sounded like nostalgia.  “You’ve seen the Kazakhs’ eagles. In the old days, before mankind began to cover the earth like a plague and the noblest of the wild beasts began to be crowded out, they hunted snow leopards as well.  Now _that_ is sport, I tell you, hound and eagle against a great cat.”  

“It does sound exciting,” Bruce said, though he was not particularly drawn to bloodsport.  Hunting had its place in the world, certainly, but he had no real experience of it.

Ra’s looked much further away than the top of the slope.  “Eagle falconry is equaled only by hunting gazelle with cheetahs.  That too is gone, men have not left enough cheetah alive for anyone to honorably to take a few from the wild and teach them to work in partnership with men.  It was much like falconry, in its way, even to keeping the cats hooded until they were loosed at prey.”

“It seems I’ve missed out on a great deal, not being raised to a hunting tradition,” Bruce said diplomatically.

“Indeed you have.  No man understands nature as well as a hunter.  A naturalist or any other type of outdoorsman goes to see the wilderness; the hunter becomes part of it,” Ra’s told him.  “And this type of sport takes more dedication, patience, and understanding that any of the shooting sports. Look you, here we stand, four species communicating with one another.  The falcon knows to wait above and watch the dogs, for her quarry will burst out ahead of them. The dogs know to rush in at what they find, forcing the partridge aloft. The horse knows that he must wait until the flush, then when the quarry is down he must carry his rider to it.  And the woman is watching them all, giving direction if need be, reassuring the horse that the footing below will be safe, ready to call back the dogs should they start some dangerous beast, watching the falcon lest she decide that it is too much work to hunt today, and she should fly elsewhere.”

Bruce was taking in the whole scene, watching Talia shade her eyes to follow the falcon, now soaring high.  She looked down, evidently giving some command to the dogs, which began trotting downhill, their plumy tails waving.  

Ra’s continued, “The falcon knows that even should she miss, she will eat tonight, for we will feed her.  The horse knows he will be rubbed down and given a lump of sugar for his hard work. The hounds know that we will check their feet for thorns before setting out homeward, and that they too shall dine even if they catch nothing.  It is all trust and partnership and communication, the way it has been done for thousands of years.”

“None of it is easy - our dogs and horses are not as tame and biddable as those to which you are accustomed, Wayne.  Like the falcon, their respect must be earned, it cannot be compelled. Among my mother’s people, you could not account yourself a man until you could properly handle horse, hound, and falcon.”  He seemed almost lost in reverie, watching the ancient drama unfold above.

“What about the quarry?” Bruce asked at last.  “The chukar, you said, and the hares. All the rest know their places here.  Does they, too, know their role?”

Ra’s gave a quiet chuckle.  “They are prey. They know their role is to die.  Perhaps not today, for they are both swift and make many turns, and the old ones are wise enough to sit tight and let the dogs walk by.”

“They must be terribly afraid,” Bruce mused.

“No, of course not,” Ra’s corrected.  “This is what they _are_ , Wayne.  They evade predators every day.  Hares run from dogs and hawks and cats and men.  Chukar fly from the same. Every single day of their lives.  They are no more afraid of dying in the hunt than you are of … getting into your car, in Gotham.  You know that men die in car wrecks, but running that risk is part of an ordinary day for you. So, too, is this, for the quarry.  And I shall tell you a secret, which many would not believe of an old hunter like me.” He smiled, a rare enough thing, and his eyes gleamed.  “We love to see the falcon fall like the hand of God and strike down her prey. We love to see the hounds chase and turn and snap up the hare, dancing like dervishes.  But we also love to see the wily partridge escape, soaring on out of sight, or the hare double in its own track with courage and cunning, and leave the dogs panting in his dust.  Do not think that we hunters have contempt for the prey. We love them, too. We only know our place in the world. And that, since the dawn of man, is to hunt and to kill.”

Ah, so _that_ was where this was all headed.  Ra’s was still trying to convince him that murder was an acceptable tactic.  And that, Bruce simply could not do. He decided to sidestep that question, as well.  “So you love even that which defies you. Does that explain why you haven’t had me shipped home in a crate?”

Ra’s laughed at him.  “If I thought you’d coerced her, you would have been dead long before I caught you.  No, from what I’ve seen, it was she who pursued you. I could fault you for letting yourself be caught, but perhaps that was your destiny as much as…”

He trailed off, as the dogs above suddenly sprang to attention.  Bruce had seen them often, lying on rugs or blinking drowsily in the sun or trotting tirelessly along.  He had never seen them _hunt_.  Suddenly he could barely see the pack, just a swift series of movements among the low brush, the flash of teeth or eyes as they ran.

A handful of birds took wing, larger than the falcon, and Bruce realized he had not seen the raptor for several minutes.  Even as he looked, she was _there_ , like the very hand of God as Ra’s had said, falling out of the sky unseen and unexpected.  

She collided with the partridge, a burst of feathers, but it doubled and she had to alter her course.  He saw the falcon’s wings pumping as she turned, the partridge trying to outwit her, but she was too fast and too skilled.  Too deadly. It ended with both birds spiraling to the ground, the partridge caught fast in the falcon’s talons, and even as Bruce watched Talia was riding down to them.

Beside him, Ra’s spoke again.  “Now you have truly seen a falcon.  Perhaps you have seen them before, in zoos, in photographs, but you did not know what a falcon was until you saw her do what she was born and bred to do.  All of her beauty was shaped by nature to fill that role.”

Bruce looked at him, hearing the quiet vehemence in his voice, and saw the anger he’d kept hidden now blazing in his eyes.  “What is it that you intend to _do_ with my daughter?  Take her back to your little city and make her your lady, Mrs. Wayne?  You would be caging a falcon as a canary, letting her grow soft as merely a pretty ornament.  Talia was born and raised to be a _warrior_.  If you try to force her to be less than that, you’re a fool.  Perhaps she might kill you for the offense, as sometimes happens when men try to make pets of what should be a free and wild hunter.  Far worse if she lets you do it, if out of love for you she should let you blunt her talons.”

Bruce was taken aback by that, enough so that his horse took a mincing step away as he shifted away.  And Ra’s only stared at him, the rage dying away to a certain fatalism. “I should have killed you when your mark matched hers.  Or not taken you in at all, let you die in some squalid prison, trying to learn your place in this world. But I could not deny the potential I saw in you, as I cannot deny Talia anything she desires, even though I fear that the man she loves may be the death of the spirit and courage I so carefully nurtured.  Mark my words, Bruce Wayne. You may love her, but you cannot change her.”


	10. Chapter 10

For the rest of that hunt, Bruce was uncharacteristically silent.  Not that he was normally a voluble man, but he would at least offer commentary on notable events.  That he was not doing so told Talia that her father had spoken to him, evidently with some force.

Two could play at that.  With one chukar in the bag, they moved on a little further, to another ridge.  Talia looked at her father and said, “You did not bring Bruce along simply to _watch_ , did you?  If you would make a falconer of him, Father, let him come above with me, and cast her for this slip.”

Something she’d said made Bruce look even more severe, but Ra’s nodded mildly, and she set off with the saker perched on her fist.  Bruce followed, or more correctly his horse did, and they reached the top of the ridge with the sighthounds milling patiently at their horses’ feet.

Talia reined around so her horse and Bruce’s stood nose to tail, her left hand reaching out to his.  “Were she an eagle, or even the gyr, I would insist you had a proper gauntlet for this,” she said. “But the saker is gentle enough, as long as your hands are steady, and your glove should protect you.  Here, take her jesses like so.”

He did so, very carefully, and followed her directions to make the falcon step up.  His nerves were not too terribly rattled by whatever her father had said, because he held his arm steady and the falcon settled, turning her hooded head about.  Talia sat back in her saddle and regarded him. “When you are ready to loose her, take off her hood - loosen the knots first with your other hand - and let her see the field before you cast her up.  A gentle toss, and let go of the jesses when you do, or she’ll be brought up short and likely bite you for fouling her takeoff.”

Bruce looked at her, then the falcon, and back to her.  “Your father compares you to a falcon,” he said, which was just what she’d intended to get out of him.  “He accuses me of wanting to make you nothing more than a tame pet, taking you back to Gotham with me.”

She rolled her eyes at that.  “So he gave you that speech, did he?  The one about how cruel it would be to blunt my talons?”

He looked surprised, which was all the confirmation Talia needed.  “Father is … much older than you know. And for all he claims to have raised me to be his equal, sometimes he forgets that women walk a very different road through life than men.  I know what I am, Beloved.”

“What you are is magnificent,” he told her staunchly.

Talia gave him a fleeting smile.  “And to most men, a magnificent _prize_.  Beautiful and with powerful connections.  Since I turned fourteen, sometimes it feels as if every prince, politician, and warlord from Marrakech to Istanbul has asked for my hand in marriage.  Father turned them all aside for me, since I had no interest in becoming _anyone’s_ treasured pet.  Silks and jewels and perfumes are delightful, I love them as much as any woman, but a man who frowns at my sword calluses is not worthy of even my disdain.”

Bruce’s frown deepened; things were very different where he came from, she remembered.  Most marriages were for love more than for political advantage, and generally not arranged so early.  Talia thought it sounded like a system that _should_ have resulted in more marital bliss, but the divorce statistics in his country said otherwise.  Perhaps no one knew how to navigate relationships in perfect harmony, and all the world simply steered their courses as best they could.

She fixed him with an intent look.  “You don’t intend to do that, do you?  Any more than you could now return to Gotham and be only Bruce Wayne, the playboy billionaire.  You know too much - and you have trained yourself to hunt, too. Not partridge and hare, but _men_ , and not because you need to eat to live, but because some of them are _evil_ , and must be stopped.”

That seemed to reassure him, and he gave her the slight hopeful smile she cherished for its authenticity.  “ _Would_ you?  Come back to Gotham with me, and play Lady Wayne for the public?”

Talia grinned.  “Why, Beloved, that sounds like something you should ask with a ring in your hand, instead of a falcon’s jesses.”  He blushed a little, and she loved him the more for it. “Let me tell you something about this fierce, wild falcon.  If she is well-fed, she will quite happily perch on the arm of your chair and let you pet her feathers to your heart’s content.  Father’s prized gyr, a mighty hunter indeed, likes to try to groom him as birds do, and will bend her head for him to kiss her nape.  They are no less falcons, and no less deadly, for having more than killing in their hearts.”

“But you couldn’t keep them like that,” Bruce said.  “They’re not tame. They wouldn’t be happy if you never let them fly.”

That deserved an honest answer.  “Perhaps. They are only birds, they might be happy so long as they were fed and kept clean.  But I know, as a falconer, I would consider it horrifically cruel to clip their wings. They are _meant_ to fly and to hunt.  To deny them that is to think that we are wiser than all the history of nature that shaped them so.  But then, no falcon cages his mate. He will hunt for her, when she cannot, but never seek to _stop_ her from hunting.”

“Maybe falcons are wiser than men,” Bruce said gently.

“Or maybe it simply that among falcons, the female is stronger and deadlier than her mate,” Talia replied with a shrug.  “All of my father’s pretty stories aside, we are not birds of prey. We make our own destiny. I do not think you could be happy trying to deny all you’ve learned here.  You came with some purpose in mind, some way to use your training, and it was not to take over my father’s empire - though that may be _his_ wish.  Whatever it is, Beloved, so long as you let me fly at your side instead of keeping me leashed, we  will be well matched.”

He smiled then.  “I’d have to be a bigger fool than I am to think I could cage _you_.  You’re still winning every time we spar.”

“Yes, well, perhaps it is not only birds where the female is more dangerous than the male,” she chuckled.  “Cast her, Beloved. Let us hunt.”

He did so, carefully removing the hood, and letting the falcon take in the scene with her dark, wise eyes.  “Go on, brave hunter,” Bruce murmured, and tossed her up, the saker’s wings flashing in the sunlight.


End file.
